Ordinary Thunderstorms

45

THERE WAS NO DOUBT THAT THE NEW ADVERTORIAL WAS IMPRESSIVE, Ingram thought — and well designed, and classy, and highly effective. Two smiling, adorable, blonde children, a boy and a girl, looking up fondly at a really incredibly attractive — not to say stunningly beautiful — young mother, looking down equally fondly at them. The colours were lambent, radiant: golds, creams, the palest yellows. “AN END TO ASTHMA?” was the heading in bold, writ large, confident in dark forest-green. There was a sententious quotation from him, something about being a force for good in a dangerous world, signed Ingram Fryzer, Chairman and CEO of Calenture-Deutz, and even his actual signature underneath it. Where had they taken that from? he wondered. Then he recalled it was routinely reproduced on all the brochures the company sent out. Yes, everything about the advertorial looked big, caring, a brighter future almost within our grasp. This could be the life we all could lead, the pages said, implicitly: let’s not waste any more time, for the sakes of pretty children and beautiful mothers like these. We don’t want them to suffer.

Ingram closed the magazine. He should feel proud, he supposed — this drug had been developed by his company, his team (with help from Rilke Pharmaceuticals, of course) and its success would rebound hugely in his and Calenture-Deutz’s favour…He flicked back to the ad — interesting, no Rilke logo, just Calenture-Deutz’s. In the proof he’d been shown by Rilke that day the inference was that this was a fight being led by Rilke Pharma. Perhaps Alfredo was shrewdly hedging his bets, waiting for the submissions to go through, get the rubber stamp before he re-directed the limelight.

Ingram sighed audibly — he was always sighing in Lachlan’s waiting room, he realised, but this time he was alone. He should feel proud, yes, dammit — years of work and toil, millions of pounds of investment and the drug was perhaps only a few weeks, some months or so, away from licensing. Good would be done in the world, suffering would be eased, mankind’s lot would be more bearable, this vale of tears less burdensome — and yet he felt unhappy, morose, powerless, even angry. How had he allowed this to happen? How come Burton Keegan and Alfredo Rilke were calling all the shots?…He knew immediately the simple, brutal answer to his outraged question — money. Maybe that was what was affecting his mood. Guilt. They had given him so much money that he had allowed himself to be neutered. That’s what he was: a eunuch. A eunuch chairman, a testicularly challenged CEO—

“You’ll have had your tea, Ingram,” Dr Lachlan McTurk said in the quavering voice of a Scottish miser, beckoning him with one finger into his consulting room.

Ingram showed him the pages in the magazine. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

“Not until now — but half a dozen of my patients have already asked me for your wonder drug. There have been articles in the press hailing it. Congratulations — it looks like being a monster.”

“Thank you. Yes, I suppose…” Ingram waited for the warm glow of pride, that little kick of self-esteem, but it resolutely would not come. He felt flat, depressed.

“And I suppose you’re going to make truly disgusting amounts of money,” Lachlan said, rummaging among his notes.

“Possibly,” Ingram said. “But the question is: will I live to display it?”

“Display your money?”

“I meant to say ‘enjoy’…” Ingram said, frowning.

“Enjoy it and display it — conspicuous consumption.” Lachlan laughed, genuinely, a surprisingly girlish giggle from such a large man. “There’s nothing wrong with you. Cholesterol’s a bit high — join the club. Gamma-GT’s at the top end of the range — cut down a tad on the booze. You’re not overweight for a man of your age. Nothing showed up in the tests. Clean bill of health in my book.”

“I still get these frantic itches. This blood-spotting on my pillow. Very unsettling, you know,” Ingram said, more plaintively than he meant. He didn’t feel a stoic today. “Also, I keep making these slips with words. I think I’m saying one word but I’m actually using another.”

“Ah. Catachresis.”

“Is that what I have?”

“No, no,” Lachlan said, quickly. “That’s just the linguistic term for the phenomenon: a paradoxical use of words, you know, in error. A kind of innocent mixed-metaphor effect. ‘Display’ for ‘enjoy’ is rather good, in fact.”

“But sometimes I’ve meant to say ‘conversation’ and have said ‘temperature’. There is no logic.”

“Everything’s connected, particularly between words. Perhaps you were unconsciously recalling a particularly ‘hot’ conversation.”

“If everything’s connected, do you think this ‘catachresis’ is connected with the blood-spotting and the itches?”

Lachlan looked at him closely, almost suspiciously. “What I could do, of course, is give you a very powerful anti-depressant. You’ll be walking on air.”

“No thanks.” Pull yourself together, man, Ingram told himself. “I’m relieved. Thank you, Lachlan. Very grateful.”

“Let me know when your wonder drug’s about to hit the market. I’ll buy some shares.”

♦

Ingram tugged on his socks, aware that his low mood had returned, if in fact it had ever left him. Maybe he should have taken Lachlan up on his offer of some happy pills — a little bit of chemical euphoria might be what he needed. He stood up and slipped his feet into his loafers and reached for his tie. Even this session with Phyllis hadn’t really cheered him up. She came into the room now, wearing a long silk dressing gown, red with snarling, scaly golden dragons. She had a clinking glass in each hand.

“Large vodka and tonic, squire,” she said, handing his over. “Cheers, Jack.” She blew him a kiss. “No extra charge.”

They touched the rims of their glasses and Ingram took two large gulps, enjoying the hit and the clear dry taste of the vodka.

“Phyllis,” he said, feigning spontaneity, “I was just thinking: would you ever contemplate — I mean, do you think we might be able to arrange a little holiday together?” He started putting on his tie. “Short break. Four or five days. Somewhere far away, sunny.”

“I have done holidays with some of my gents, yeah. Nice change of scene for us all.”

She sat down on the bed and allowed her dressing gown to fall open so he could see her left breast.

“Where are we thinking about, love?” she asked.

“Morocco, I thought, there’s a super hotel—”

“Nah — don’t do the Med.”

“Florida? The Caribbean? South Africa?”

“More interesting.”

“I’d already be at the villa—”

“Hotel. Not villa holidays, darling. No room service.”

“Yes, hotel. And you fly in separately—”

“Business class,” she pulled the lapels of her dressing gown together.

“Goes without saying. We spend three or four blissful days together. You fly out.”

“I don’t think so, Jack. I lose money on these holidays. And it’s never really that enjoyable for me, to tell the truth. Thanks, but no thanks.”

“We could go radio if you prefer — I mean east: Sri Lanka, Thailand.”

“No. Best forget it.”

She stood and came over to him, frowning, pretending to show concern, rubbing his cheek with her knuckles.

“What’s brought this on, Jack-me-lad? Thought you wasn’t quite your old perky self.”

Ingram made up some story about pressure of work — he had told her once he was a pharmacist, he remembered. He said he was going to sell the shop — that was it, sell the business, he improvised — treat himself to a holiday.

“You built it up — you deserve the rewards,” she said. “You save your money. You earned it. You couldn’t really afford me on one of these trips. Wouldn’t like to take it off you.”

“Fine, no problem. You’re probably right.”

On the Tube train back to Victoria, Ingram felt his spirits lifting somewhat, even though Phyllis had quashed his plans. The idea had come to him a few days ago, and he wondered exactly why. Maybe it was just the simple need for change — a temporary change in his life with a new, very short-term, complication-free partner (he knew Meredith would suspect nothing — he was always flying off abroad to conferences and meetings). Bit of sea and sun, good food, good wine, vigorous uncomplicated sex on demand…Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea — there were other ‘Phyllises’ out there in the world…

He looked about him, at his fellow passengers: shabby, slumped, expressionless, glum Londoners, a few reading, many plugged into their headphones, one pretty blonde girl seemed to be watching a miniature TV — was that possible? — and he sensed his mood lightening further as he projected forward to potential holidays with other Phyllises, wondering at the same time how much more money Zembla-4 was going to make for him. “The eunuch billionaire”—he could live with that. Perhaps his new Phyllis could fly in on a private jet after the Zembla-4 launch — personally, he wouldn’t be setting foot on a commercial airline again for the rest of his life. He thought about that little trick she’d done with her scarlet dragon robe, letting it fall open like that. She knew what buttons to push, knew how to excite him. That would be the problem with someone new — it just wouldn’t be the same.

He strode up the platform, heading for the exit, feeling stronger, more emboldened, as he always did after a Phyllis-session. Stop whingeing, man, he said to himself, let Keegan and Rilke run the show, do the leg work, the lobbying, the complicated dance with the licensing authorities. Don’t make a fuss, just pick up the cheque at the end of the day.

Thinking about Keegan turned his mind to their last unsatisfactory meeting. He was pretty sure he knew, broadly, what had happened when Philip Wang went to see Keegan that afternoon. Philip must have discovered something about the Zembla-4 clinical trials that had enraged him and he had confronted Keegan about the matter, that final afternoon. Keegan had lied, not at all convincingly, and the opposite of the lie—“Philip was delighted”—contained the truth: Philip was disturbed, Philip was suspicious, Philip was furious, possibly. He thought further: Philip was about to go public? Could that be what was mooted?…And how extraordinary that he had been murdered that very evening by this Kindred fellow, this sinister climatologist…No, no, no, Ingram upbraided himself — don’t go there. It was just one of these hideous, terrifying, dark coincidences. Impossible…

Still, he didn’t yet know what Philip had discovered, what had made him confront Keegan. That was the key issue. Perhaps he might call Keegan in again and bluff it out, make it seem as if he knew what Wang had come up with, what had disturbed him. He thought further: Keegan had taken that meeting, therefore it was one hundred per cent sure that Alfredo Rilke knew as well what Wang had unearthed. So Keegan and Alfredo knew what had gone wrong with Zembla-4, what had so troubled Philip Wang…He shook his head as if a bothersome fly were buzzing around him. But it couldn’t be that serious because Alfredo himself had authorised the submission process. No, just a terrible, terrible tragedy.

Luigi was waiting for him in Eccleston Square, walking around the car with a chamois rag removing the odd smear of city grease or dusty water-spot from the Bentley’s gleaming body-work. Ingram slid into the back and Luigi paused before closing the door on him.

“You have one call from your son, signore. He is going to be a few minutes late.”

♦

“What about some pudding, Forty? — Nate?” he added quickly. Ingram offered the menu for him to see.

“I’d better be going, Dad, we’ve a job at—”

“Some coffee, then. You’ve only been here half an hour.”

“All right.”

Ingram signalled over a waiter and they gave their orders, Ingram sensing Fortunatus’s discomfort coming off him like a force-field. He had given the choice of restaurant a lot of thought — nothing too grand, expensive or formal — but still something of a treat. This was their first lunch together since…He couldn’t think when. Since Forty was at school? Surely not? Anyway, he had decided it was to be the inauguration of a regular series: he and his son were going to see a lot more of each other.

This restaurant was famous: customers, ordinary common folk, had to book six months in advance and yet — on his previous visits — Ingram had noticed many young people, extremely casually dressed, not to say scruffy, some of them reputedly with famous names. Even today, at lunchtime, he could spot the TV presenter, the knighted ballet dancer, the flamboyant actress with her irritating laugh. Ingram quietly pointed them out but Forty knew none of them. And the restaurant, despite its fashionably elite renown, still provided the consolations and comforts of solid tradition. Its multicoloured stained-glass windows would have been familiar to theatrical stars of the 19308. Its napery was thick and impeccably starched, its silverware heavy and un-modish in design, its menu a comforting blend of English nursery food and the latest fusion cuisine. Yet for all this, Forty was so ill at ease that Ingram could feel his own shoulder muscles beginning to contract and spasm in sympathy.

“Look, isn’t that the chap from that TV quiz show?”

“We don’t have a television, Dad.”

“How is Ronaldinho?”

“Rodinaldo.”

“Of course.”

He looked at his unshaven, bald son, hot in his heavy combat jacket, his fingernails black with leaf mulch or compost and he felt a sob well up in his throat. He wanted to reach out and hug him, he wanted to bathe him, make him clean and pink and dry him in thick white towels.

“Forty — Nate — I’d like you to call me Ingram. Do you think you could?”

“I can’t do that, Dad, sorry.”

“Could you try?”

“It won’t work, Dad. I just can’t.”

“I respect that. No, no, I do.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffee. Ingram had to accept this though he had thought that if they moved on to first-name terms there would be a concomitant loosening, a chance for a real friendship developing, without the tired old father — son relationship intervening.

“How’s business? You know I want to invest.”

“We’re fine. We’ve more work than we can handle.”

“Then take on more people. Expand. I can be useful with all this stuff, Forty. Capitalisation, new plant—”

“We don’t want to expand, don’t you understand that?”

Something about the jut of Forty’s jaw and the stubborn way he looked at him in the eye stirred Ingram in ways he had forgotten he could be stirred. He felt his throat thicken with pure emotion and he said softly to his youngest son, “I love you, Forty. I want to spend more time with you. Let’s meet every week or so, get to know each other properly.”

“Dad, please don’t cry. People are looking.”

Ingram touched his cheek with a knuckle and found it wet. What was happening to him? He must be having some kind of nervous break—

“Hey. Family! Who let you riff-raff in?”

Ingram looked up to see Ivo Redcastle standing there, looming over the table. Ivo was wearing a snakeskin jacket and tight jeans, sunglasses were pushed up into his dense blue-black hair.

“You all right, mate?” Ivo said, peering at Ingram.

“Bit of a coughing fit.”

“Forty, good to see you, man. Flat.” Ivo tried to give Forty a soul handshake, but Forty didn’t know what to do. Ivo settled for a high-five.

“Hello, Uncle Ivo. I’ve got to go, Dad. Thanks for lunch, bye.”

And he was gone that quickly, almost running out of the restaurant, and Ingram could have happily eviscerated Ivo for denying him his farewell embrace. He stood up, face set, left three fifty-pound notes on the table and walked to the door, Ivo striding beside him.

“Where were you?” Ingram said. “Didn’t see you when we came in.”

“Down the far end with the grockles,” Ivo said. “More discreet.” He glanced again at Ingram. “If I didn’t know you better, you heartless bastard, I’d say you’d been crying.”

“It’s an allergy thing. Can I drop you somewhere?”

They stepped outside the restaurant: the usual small gaggle of paparazzi were unimpressed.

“No thanks,” Ivo said. “I’ve got a meeting in Soho. Film producer.”

“How did the T — shirts go?”

“Well…Funny you should ask, but things are looking up. I just had a really interesting phone call.”

“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date, Ivo.”

“What?”

“Time marches on.”

“Actually,” Ivo began, and Ingram recognised the change in tone — his wheedling, begging voice—“I might possibly need to speak to you about that. Bit of a cash-flow problem. If this bloke doesn’t come through. Which he will, I’m sure.”

There was the buzzing sound of a scooter starting up and its insect-noise increased as it sped up to the restaurant, slowing almost to a halt as it drew opposite them.

“Hey, Ivo!” the driver shouted through his helmet visor and Ivo of course looked up. Ingram thought it strange that this paparazzo should be taking a photo with a disposable camera. Ivo put his shades on, looking pleased.

“Fucking nightmare,” he said. “If only they’d leave me alone.”

“Good to see you,” Ingram said and headed for Luigi and the Bentley.

“Oh yeah. Great ads, loved them!” Ivo shouted over his shoulder as he sauntered off, up West Street towards Cambridge Circus and the cramped purlieus of Soho beyond.